


J/I ficlet

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-KKBB ficlet for <span></span><a href="http://remuslives23.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://remuslives23.livejournal.com/"></a><b>remuslives23</b>. Unbeta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	J/I ficlet

  
_We must always have a place_  
to store the darkness  
[...]  
No  
Don’t even bring a candle when you come

—Agha Shahid Ali, ‘In Search of Evanescence’

  
‘Keep the lights off?’ Jack says as Ianto gropes uselessly against the unfamiliar wall of the hotel room, trying to find the switch. The tentative question floats in the air between them for a moment before it vanishes, lost in the darkness.

Ianto doesn’t try to hold on to it. To the sound of Jack’s voice, still a little unfamiliar at this time, after being unheard for months, still a little strange when it falls on his ears like this again, when they’re sharing a bed.

He doesn’t even know what they’re doing here, what Jack is doing here, getting into bed with Ianto as though he belongs there. It may have been different if Jack had laughed, filled the room with the sound of his voice, been brash, reclaimed what had been his. Jack’s tentativeness is new, vulnerable like bare skin slipping against the blade of a knife.

Ianto lets his hand fall to the bed, on the pillow between them, his fingers catching Jack’s warm breath and curling around it, around empty air. He doesn’t let his fingers become a fist. Lets them lie like that, curled in front of Jack’s face in the darkness, cupping the air between them.

Jack breathes slowly in the dark, careful, measured breaths. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. There’s something in the simple rhythm that Ianto can keep up with; this, at least, doesn’t demand competition, doesn’t ask for anything other than _match my rhythm, stay in sync with me, please don’t let me fall behind._

This they can do, this slow, measured slide of breath against breath, undemanding. Ianto wants to gulp in air, close the gap between them, breathe Jack in. He knows he won’t, knows he’ll lie still. He won’t think of it as waiting. It’s too early to want to look at Jack in the light, to fill the darkness with words, to try to chase it away with flames that might burn what they’re trying to save.

In the dark, Jack’s breath brushes tentatively against Ianto’s skin. He moves a little closer, his lips brushing against the curve of Ianto’s hand.

Ianto uncurls his hand, slides it on to the soft cotton of Jack’s sleeve. Darkness covers Jack like a cloak. There are unseen bruises below his skin, mottling with pain, as-yet-unhealed, their presence as clear as though they were vividly shaded in purples and blacks, splashes of pain that Ianto wants to paint over.

He trails his hand up Jack’s arm, reaches his shoulder, squeezes gently. Doesn’t tug at Jack, doesn’t invite him closer. _Too soon._

In the narrow space between them, silence stretches languidly, purrs like a contented cat, curls its tail around itself. Jack’s hand reaches across the emptiness and settles, warm and heavy, on Ianto’s hip.


End file.
